Small World, Owl Friend
by lost frequencies
Summary: Daniel doesn't know much about the man behind the inkblot mask—not even his name.


**Small World, Owl Friend**

by lost frequencies.

**.*.*.*.**

Daniel Dreiberg doesn't know much about the man behind the inkblot mask—not even his name.

At half past ten almost every morning, he crosses the road on Fortieth to check the trash bin opposite Gunga Diner. He doesn't understand why the man insists on keeping in touch by leaving messages inside a public bin. Even after three months of patrolling together, he hasn't shown any interest in developing friendly ties, leaving Dreiberg with mixed feelings about their awkwardly distant partnership.

At twenty-years of age, Dreiberg is already feeling incompetent as a masked adventurer. His confidence is undermined by the mere thought of a trenchcoat-wearing vigilante whom, despite his flimsy disguise, is incredibly strong, quick-witted and unpredictable. There are times when Dreiberg shows up at Hollis Mason's door looking disheartened. The old man would then try to convince his young successor, telling him repeatedly that he's always been, "_—a better Nite Owl than I ever was_."

A creased paper in his hand reads: _Brooklyn tonight. Usual spot. 11.30pm._

Despite his uncertainties, Dreiberg looks forward to what the evening has in store for him.

.

.

"You're _late_!" a gravelly voice shouts over the high-pitched whir of the Owlship's engines.

"I could have been here sooner," Dreiberg replies. "But I had to sort out a few technical glitches—"

"—the _fuck_ are you taking me?" strains another voice from behind. From his seat, Dreiberg turns to look as the fedora-clad vigilante throws a juvenile suspect against the metallic interior of the ship. "I know _nothing_, man. I swear—_AUGH_!" His interrogator grabs him by the hands, crushing them in his merciless grip.

Dreiberg activates a switch to close the door immediately.

Blots on the vigilante's mask shift accordingly as he gruffly explains, "But I know _everything_ there is to know about you..._Mike_. You live off your grandmother's pension and sell drugs to club goers—most of them underage—on the Upper West Side. Your friend Antonio got gunned down after he quit Big Figure's gang two months ago." He tightens his grip on the gangster's hands. "Unless you co-operate and tell me where your gang leader is, I'll make sure you get out in a body bag!"

"I've never met Mr. Figure, man!" Mike confesses, "I sell his drugs! But I don't know where—"

"_Give me a name!"_

"Irish!" the young thug whimpers pathetically, choking back his tears. "I get the stuff from some guy named Irish. Please! Let me go! I need the money. _My grandmother's sick."_

Dreiberg's frowning.

He isn't sure what's upsetting him: his partner's brutal form of interrogation or the fact that too many kids have been caught in the crossfire of a gang war in northeastern Brooklyn. While the war wages on in Vietnam, the youth back home are sacrificing their lives meaninglessly over drugs, money and their so-called reputation.

Shifting patterns fall stagnant over the centre of the brute vigilante's mask. He then asks, "Where?" in a slightly subdued tone of voice.

Confused and lost behind the cloth blindfold soaked in his own perspiration, Mike stutters, "_G-g-gravity Tunnel._"

The vigilante tilts his head in a questioning manner. Before he could squeeze a few more answers from the thug, Dreiberg intervenes to catch his attention. "Riverside Park," he informs his partner, while steering the ship away from public eye. "Best you hold on to something. I'm taking Archie underwater."

"_Hmph._" Without warning, the vigilante swings a hard punch in the thug's face, knocking him unconscious.

"That wasn't necessary!" shouts Dreiberg, half-reprimanding his partner.

"Can't stand listening to him sobbing like a baby," reasons the inkblot masked vigilante. "Would rather have him sleep like one." He takes an empty seat behind Dreiberg and begins adjusting the scarf around his neck. "We'll take him in as our rat," he continues. "Let him sniff out Irish. Whoever he is, there's no doubt in my mind he works for Big Figure."

"Hold on tight," Dreiberg reminds his partner again as he gradually plunges the ship into the pitch darkness of the East River. Underwater, he relies on his night-vision goggles to see as he steers the Owlship towards their destination. "You OK back there?" he asks the one sitting behind him.

"Never felt better." His partner lets out a gruff chuckle through his latex mask. "This is going to be a good night. I can just feel it," he reckons.

Dreiberg wishes he could share his partner's enthusiasm, but then only silence falls between them.

.

.

Gravity Tunnel: a shelter for the homeless and drug addicts, secluded from the bustling city noise beneath the Hudson River.

Mike feels lost and confused—even without a blindfold.

He tries to breathe, albeit with difficulty, through all the dried blood and snot clogging up his nostrils. He wheezes instead and winces at the nagging pain in his swollen hands. Footsteps follow closely from behind as he trudges along the abandoned rail track strewn with rubble and trash. He finds his way around until he sees Irish waiting impatiently among the homeless civilians surrounding the burning fire pit.

"Where the fuck have you been?" asks Irish, a burly man in his late twenties, sporting a beard and a gang tattoo on his neck. "When I say you come at midnight, means you come at midnight. I've got more important things to do than to fuck around in the cold, waiting—" He slowly shifts his attention to the looming presence behind Mike.

Mike turns and backs away with trepidation as he finally catches a glimpse of his interrogator's inkblot face. "Sorry Irish," his voice trembles. "He left me no choice."

The young thug's attempt to escape falls short as he stumbles over a pile of rubble. "Don't you dare run away from me, you piece of shit!" Irish yanks him off the ground, grabbing Mike by the collar. "Where's my money?"

"Should've known better than to hire a kid to do the job." Not expecting an answer, the vigilante throws a series of alternate punches with both elbows, following a swift kick on the pressure point behind Irish's knee before pinning him to the ground by the scorching pit. The others back away, horrified. Mike rises to his feet and runs frantically for his life.

The year is 1965. Walter Kovacs is beating a man inside an abandoned railroad tunnel. And no one dares to do anything to stop him.

The homeless youth and addicts crawl out of their burrows to watch as he batters the muscle-bound gangster for the one important clue.

They _all_ watch; like how society had watched Kitty Genovese die.

Not far away, Dreiberg hears the howling cries of his partner's victim echo throughout the emptiness of the tunnel. He stands waiting in the middle of the tracks, with arms folded across his chest. He notices Mike scampering off like an injured rat through his night-vision goggles but decides against chasing after him. As far as he's concerned, Mike's earned enough bruises for tonight.

The cries gradually turn into desperate pleas for mercy, and then...silence; a sign of accomplishment. Satisfaction.

Moments later, his partner emerges unscathed.

"I know where Big Figure is," he tells Dreiberg as they stand facing each other in the dark.

.

.

They start towards the exit where the moonlight beckons to join in the city's ensemble of police sirens and gunshots, the sound of water not far away and ships cruising in from above the underground tunnel. Their footsteps hurry along the tracks as they argue, leaving the inkblot masked man to think that the one donning the Nite Owl suit is too emotionally distracted to be of any help tonight.

Having had enough of Dreiberg's sarcastic remarks and immature behaviour, he gestures accusingly with his index finger and says gruffly, "You're being unprofessional about this."

"Excuse me?" Dreiberg's cape sways dramatically as he turns to face the inkblot masked man. "Unprofessional? You're the one who's being unprofessional," he retorts, his voice edged with irritation. "You act as if I'm not even here. Am I supposed to just sit back and watch while you call the shots on everything? I thought we're supposed to be partners?"

Inkblot patterns move accordingly to the vigilante's blatant response: "Well you thought wrong."

Dreiberg opens his mouth to say something but quickly holds his tongue. He sees no point in arguing anymore. Where he hopes for mutual understanding and respect, he receives the cold shoulder instead. He feels alone in a world where his dream of becoming a costumed crime fighter has been accomplished but not met. Now that he knows he's been taken advantage of, he's more than keen to walk away from it all...

"I can't take this shit anymore." He summons the Owlship with the controller in his hand.

"Weak!" growls the inkblot masked vigilante. "Just like the rest of them. Just like Hollis Mas—"

Dreiberg lunges at the man and tugs him at the collar. "Shut up!" he shouts in his partner's black and white face. "Don't you _dare_ talk about Hollis Mason! What the fuck is your problem, man? Get off your damn high horse!"

"Don't _ever_ touch me!" threatens the brute vigilante. He shoves Dreiberg against the wall. "And stop asking questions you already know the answers to. You're too _soft_. Gullible. No one's going to take you seriously if you continue to be the way you are."

"At least I know where to draw the line. You're more concerned about beating up criminals than protecting the people—"

"Protecting the people?" The vigilante emits a cynical chuckle through his mask and whispers gravely, "Society benefits from people like us who use violence on their behalf. But they're too apathetic to comprehend or be appreciative of our efforts. We're a dying breed—best we stick to the shadows where the vermin welcome us with open arms." Despite how indecipherable his face looks, his tone of voice clearly expresses contempt for the man in the owl suit. "You pick an inopportune time to give up, Nite Owl," he says. "What a shame."

The fedora-clad vigilante swaggers out the tunnel exit, leaving Dreiberg behind with his ship. His last word serves yet another echoing insult:

"_Pathetic._"

.

.

While leaving Dreiberg to wallow in self-pity, he walks the streets—unmasked, now looking like a respectable middle-class civilian in his purple pinstripe suit, polished brown shoes and coat draped over one arm. He catches a cab and tells the driver to take him to where the billboards and illuminating lights are, pass the seemingly endless row of strip joints, liquor stores and so-called "massage parlours". Two streets away from the actual location, somewhere behind a dumpster in the back street, Walter Kovacs suits up for the evening once again. He dons the detective uniform, hat, leather gloves...his inkblot face before prowling the alleyways for the backdoor to the _Decade_—a members-only club on the Upper West Side—where Big Figure and his gang are currently lurking.

He picks something out from the shadows: a familiar stature of a man under a pointy-eared cowl, his body wrapped in an owl-winged cape. Kovacs already knows who he is. With hands tucked inside the pockets of his trench coat, he stops and waits for an apology.

"Do you really think you can handle this on your own?" Nite Owl takes a step closer before the inkblot masked man. "Unarmed—against these machine-gun-wielding mobsters? There must be more than fifty of them in there. You won't stand a chance."

"Someone's got to do the job," he replies gruffly, though sounding a lot calmer. Kovacs is expecting him to show up anyway. He knows Nite Owl will never leave his mission (and partner) behind. He just needed some time alone to cool off.

So did Kovacs.

"Thought you might need this." Nite Owl tosses a weapon to him. "Use it wisely."

Kovacs tilts his head to the side, signifying curiosity over the bulky weapon in his hand.

His partner elaborates: "It's an electroshock gun. Electrodes fly through the air when you pull the trigger. I say you can easily bring three, four...or five people down at once. It's been modified; works better than the conventional types."

"Impressive," is the only word he could think of.

"I'm sorry I lashed out on you earlier. I just..." Nite Owl trails off and nods with a tight-lipped smile.

"Don't matter," says Kovacs as he breaks the backdoor open with a swift kick. "We're here now."

.

.

The scent of fried fat, steamed vegetables, gravy and pasta come wafting under their noses, reminding them of that empty feeling within their bellies. Apron-clad workers stand motionless with their suspicious gaze hidden behind steam rising from huge pots on the stoves.

Kovacs glances briefly at the tray of chocolate éclairs on the countertop. Pushing his hunger aside, he clears his throat and begins, "We've been told Big Figure is here. Anyone cares to tell where he's hiding?"

And in the midst of sweltering silence, he huffs, "Thought so."

Then one of them charges towards Kovacs with a chopper in his hand, initiating a brawl. He retaliates by slamming his attacker against the stainless steel countertop over wine glasses and ceramic plates. Blood—other than animal blood splatters on the walls. Pots and pans come crashing to the ground spilling Clam Chowder and Bolognese sauce over bodies sprawled unconscious.

Nite Owl continues to keep a watchful eye, stunning the ones armed with guns with his electroshock weapon. Kovacs smiles wryly under his mask. He's always been discreetly grateful for his partner's alertness in combat.

"Hey. Didn't you mention something about a room?" Nite Owl asks as he busts the metal door open. He scans the cold storage room filled with crates and boxes of perishables for something that might serve as a secret entrance to Big Figure's hideout. "Look at that," he says and directs Kovacs' attention to a door in the floor.

His partner nods. "Big enough for only a man his size to slip through. But there _must_ be an alternative—"

The club manager storms into the kitchen through the swinging doors on the front. "What the fuck just happened here?" he bellows, eyes widened in shock at the sight of his employees on the floor and over the stoves, with some of them still paralysed by Nite Owl's shock gun.

Nite Owl cracks a victorious smile. "I think we've found our alternative."

.

.

Big Figure stands four feet, nine inches tall with the look of fear etched on his face. A cigar hangs loosely between his chapped lips as he whimpers beneath the shadow of his oversized fedora. All of his men are either paralysed or badly injured, left on the floor to bleed and moan in agony. He stands alone now, at the mercy of a ghost and his owl counterpart.

"Someday," he says, failing to conceal the tremble in his voice. "_Someday_, you're gonna regret this. You have no idea who you're messin' with. Whoever the fuck you are—"

"Rorschach," answers the ghost. He lifts the dwarfish gangster against the wall of a lavishly furnished VIP room and wraps his gloved fingers firmly around Big Figure's throat. He gazes uneasily at the symmetrical patterns as they shift fluidly, almost hypnotically, over the vigilante's face. "Remember me, and remember me well," insists the one named Rorschach. "I'll be haunting you for as long as you live."

_Rorschach. How cleverly fitting._

Nite Owl ponders the irony of how his partner opens up to an enemy but is stubbornly distrustful of their partnership. Despite that, he feels satisfied knowing that the man behind the inkblot mask has a name—a name Dreiberg hopes he is trusted enough to call him by someday...

.

.

He's convinced that he will never see Rorschach again, knowing the man has always preferred to work alone. He's convinced that he will never be as good as Hollis Mason or any other masked adventurer alive. Perhaps his father is right. Perhaps Rorschach is right. This isn't his forte. This isn't what he's gone to Harvard for. This isn't his calling.

"It's been an honour working with you, Nite Owl." Rorschach extends a handshake, taking Dreiberg by surprise. "This wouldn't have been possible without your help."

As he takes his partner's hand, he finds himself smiling again.

One moment. One _sincere_ moment of gratitude is all it takes to lift his dampened spirits. And it means so much coming from the one named _Rorschach_.

"Daniel...or Dan; whichever's fine by me," he replies casually with a boyish grin.

Rorschach lets go of Nite Owl's hand. Awkwardly. He gazes downward to avoid eye contact, still unsure of what to say.

"Are you sure you don't need a ride?"

"On a night like this," replies Rorschach. "I'd rather be walking home."

"Well, it is a good night." Nite Owl smiles thoughtfully. "You take care—" he tries to say, then hesitates. Maybe he shouldn't address his partner by his name yet.

Not tonight.

Not while he seems to be in such a good mood.

"You too..._Daniel_."

Rorschach turns to stroll along the edge of the rooftop where he could get a clearer view of the cops and their vehicles. He then reaches for something from the left pocket of his trench coat: an éclair. The one surviving piece of pastry he thought was worth saving amidst the chaotic, bloody mess.

Nite Owl could only shake his head in amusement. He returns to his ship, leaving Rorschach to savour his sweet reward in solitary peace.


End file.
